The Ties that Bind
by pratz
Summary: AU. No demon in her right mind likes any binding. No magician in her right mind thinks of binding as anything but a contract. Faberry in the Bartimaeus Trilogy world.
1. Prologue

**The Ties that Bind**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: RIB's.

Summary: No demon in her right mind likes any binds. No magician in her right mind thinks of binding as anything but a contract. This is a story of how the impossible shifts and the inevitable happens.

AN: With _Faithful are the Wounds_ on hiatus (my bad, my bad), I decided to take a small detour. As you know, I borrow some concept from the amazing Jonathan Stroud's _Bartimaeus Trilogy._ This is also my first foray into defamiliarization.

-.-.-.-

**Prologue**

Humans would never know how it felt to be in my shoes.

(Wait. I already used a human idiom. Preposhoesterous!)

This accurately aimed self-chastising hit me even further as I took notice of my surrounding. Choking sulfur cloud hung around the spacious room—I would not think for a second that it gave a pleasant smell to non-demon beings. The level of moistness in the room rose. Ice had formed on the curtains and the walls. And I was in this column in the middle of a pentacle. All standard inspection of reality, checked. Good job, me.

This meant I was summoned.

We demons, especially demons of my level, were able to assess the power of magicians who summoned us, making us justified in our judgment of their worthiness. Mind you, not all summoners were worthy to serve. Some were low-level magician apprentices who were just trying their first luck in summoning, and for those puerile attempts, usually we gave them a taste of magic practicing infancy: a black eye, some scratches that would stay for days, or broken bones. And it was not backlash, I told you. It was a lesson of humility.

Some other summoners—well—let's just say that they were more experienced in dealing with demons. Seasoned magicians would know better than to let a minor slip in their spell or an uneven line on their pentacle cost them their wellbeing.

(But, of course, even the mighty could fall.)

Now, to my summoner.

A pair of hazel eyes met mine from another pentacle across the room. Loose blond hair curled over one shoulder, and a dark robe over the other fastened by an eagle clip. Long, lean fingers that glided over the chalk drawing of her pentacle. High-boned cheeks and jaw, tightened as she straightened up. Pale lips and even paler skin. Barely in her twenty, I assumed. Oh, I liked her composure, though. Well, I did not want to sound so conceited, but I knew how to have respect even for humans. Her poise screamed of regal bearing. And I did have some rewarding experiences with aristocrats.

She did not appear to be scared, but who was I to talk? If there were anything I learned lately, it was that some young magicians did have the capability to surprise themselves—and a few demons.

So I floated and waited.

"I demand of you to tell me your name."

Ha! I wanted to roll my eyes and just left in a poof—but you know how it worked with magicians. When you were in a pentacle, you were to abide by the will of your summoner. At any cost. Even if it was just for a request to make a love potion work (which was silly to begin with—because no love potion had ever been successfully created) to one such as to tell your name.

Again, which was silly, because, let's face it, she would not have summoned me had she not known my name.

"Berry."

She swallowed almost perceptibly. Now, now. Did I finally make her nervous?

"I demand of you again to tell me your name."

Seriously? Was she going to be a time-waster? Fine.

"I am Berry, teacher of David, King of Israel, whose singing career shall not be belittled. I helped Hadrian build his wall across England and helped him nurture arts. I constructed New Amsterdam for the Dutch colonialists and remained her guardian until it was traded to the British and renamed New York. I led Puccini to his greatness. So yes, I am Berry, and I recognize no master. Who are _you_, then, to implore me of my service?"

Then it happened.

The air crackled, and invisible tendrils shot from her pentacle to coil tightly around me. In a snap. I was strangled inside the column. The pentacle swayed in front of my eyes as the temperature rose, and it was no longer cold. I knew what this was. A punishment. Even before my service started. Just great.

My, she sure could throw a temper tantrum, couldn't she?

"By the constraint of the pentacle, _demon_, I am your mistress." Even her voice was now cold. "You will obey my will."

I hissed as the tendrils bit harder into my skin. Not yet a contract binding. Not yet. But this young soon-to-be mistress of mine surprised me again with her biding. I took my words back about her being a time-waster. I mean, look at her. She did not even wait to window-shop to give her first command.

(And I admitted that I was curious. No magician apprentice summoned a demon of my level only to do petty, trivial tasks. And knowing that she sought _me_, of all demons. And it was not as if I could say no. With the way things work, I could not. It was either I obeyed her or returned to the Other Place just to get my body ripped into pieces out of noncompliance. Sometimes being a demon had its disadvantages, you see.)

To my bigger surprise, she stepped out of her pentacle and walked towards me. This. Is. An insult. A slap to my face. Literally. Never had I ever heard of something like this. Was I deemed so weak that she believed she did not need protection against me? Was I deemed so weak that she could rein in me even without a contract? Was I—this _kid_!

I held back the temptation to give her a piece of my extremely annoyed mind as she stopped right in front of me. We were in the pentacle. The _same_ pentacle. From this distance, I could see her more clearly. Hooded hazel eyes looked at me in the eye, and if there was anything that could annoy me more, it was finding that she had so many walls erected in those eyes.

As if she was the one who needed to protect herself.

She reached out to touch one of the tendrils that wound itself around my left arm. Her fingers curled around my wrist, lightly, as if testing. Then she pressed. And pressed. And pressed. The tendrils soon left mark on my skin. They were blazing red on dark, dark demon skin. Within seconds, I knew her mark was going to be permanent.

Her voice evened out again as she spoke, deep and gruff but with a certain lilt in it—she could undergo a vocal training like what I gave to David, really.

"Be my demon."

-.-.-.-

So... what do you think? To continue or not to continue?


	2. One

**The Ties that Bind**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: RIB's. The Bartimaeus universe belongs to Jonathan Stroud.

Summary: No demon in her right mind likes any binds. No magician in her right mind thinks of binding as anything but a contract. This is a story of how the impossible shifts and the inevitable happens.

A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you for reading the prologue and encouraging me to continue writing. Surprisingly, I'm into this story more than I've thought, and that's why I have noted down all the details I need to finish this. Enjoy and let me know what you think. Have a nice Fall Break!

-.-.-.-

**Chapter 1 of 9**

I'm a nice demon.

I'm the most sympathetic demon you could find in good ol' London and the whole Europe and across the pond. I mean, I tolerated that little shepherd lad even before he was known as David, the first king of the United Kingdom of Israel. (Read your history, commoners. I insist.) Even with that little talent in magic he had, I did not dismiss his summon right away. He was meek and a bit whiny, true, but he had his heart set in the right direction. He knew how to think of a greater good, and he knew how to be dream big. That's why I tolerated him.

That's why I did not depart from his side when he committed adultery with his general's wife and killed the poor man.

(Humans and their wants, really.)

Now, did that explain why I was back in the Other Place? Yes. Did that explain why my newest employer (on behalf of all sane demons that had come before me, I refused to use the term 'master') gave me, for the first time, a clear understandable-by-even-a-five-year-old bidding? Yes. Did that explain why I was glad that her will—'_Return to your plane and replenish your power_ ' (Materializing in the second or the first plane took quite an energy. That was why we demons must return to the Other Place to replenish our power. Otherwise, we would be drained, and that meant so long, adieu, hasta la vista.)—was a piece of cake? Yes.

Let me tell you something: I lied.

(Angry, aren't you? Serve you right.)

Well, I guess she had learned well Rule Number One in Dealing with Demons: Trust No One.

You commoners would have thought that with a long history of human-demon teamwork, our kin had built trust in one another. Again, I insist you read your history (that grimoire by Cencio Savelli [1] could be a good start.), because that would be the biggest joke you could make in front of a demon. Mark, underline, and highlight my point: We Do Not Trust Each Other.

"Stop thinking."

Huh?

"Stop thinking, Berry."

Oh right. Puck. My lifelong acquaintance. I could feel his presence become more solid as he floated next to me.

We were in the Other Place. Your commoner brain might never be able to grasp the idea, but just think of it as a kind of giant swimming pool with millions of people swimming in it. Now replace the people with slow-moving, greyish, ethereal slivers. That was how we demons resided in the Other Place. We were of one. Each entity contributed to this place, and each entity mattered. If one demon's lifetime ended, this place knew. If one returned to replenish his power, this place knew. If a demon spoke to another here, this place knew—it was like talking to yourself and hearing your own voice and answering it from within. In this place, there was no I. We were all we.

We're just cool that way. Don't be jealous.

"So I heard." I heard a chuckle that was mine and not mine altogether. (Now this was also a characteristic of the Other Place. We felt everything, but it was also possible to create a distance. Imagine circular ripples. One touched another but at the same time was separated. This was what Puck was doing: putting the two of us in the same ripple. Oh, and I don't want to be bragging, but only high-level demons could do it.) "Who is it?"

"Fabray."

Puck's presence grew thicker. He's getting nearer. "Yeah, yeah. Why would he need you when he has a marid?"

That I did not know. "It's a she."

That Puck did not know, apparently. I heard his snicker inside my head. "You work for a magician _family_?"

I was about to launch a thousand ships of witty reply at him when her mark on my left wrist flared to life. Indelible, trompe l'oeil lines made their presence known, slithering up my arm. I could feel the tap-tap-tap of eight-leg-like movement as it climbed higher and higher before settling on my shoulder, curling around my neck, and resting their ghostly fingertips on my nape. There it was again: that tap-tap-tap sensation. Like a human's wicked beckon to a lover and at the same time an eagle's talon around a not-yet killed prey. It said, _come. Come. Come_.

(Seriously, this summon signal of hers was not funny.)

Le sigh.

Time to go back to business with the kid.

-.-.-.-

Had I told you before that not all humans had the knack for magic? The idea of magic being something that you commoners could learn was absurd. It was a born ability. If you were not born with it, if you were not born that way, that's it. You were never, ever becoming a magician. Case closed.

That's why in this business magical ability was precious. Children with magical ability were traded for a large sum of wealth. Some were sold; some others were simply given up by parents who could not handle a magician offspring. Then those children would undertake apprenticeship under one or several experienced magicians, and they would hone their own skills. They would perform tasks, and if they were really capable of greatness, they would make a name and fortune of their own. As they grew older, they would look for an apprentice, and the cycle continued.

(Actually, the first indication of magical ability was simple: you must be able to see _us_. The problem was that we lived in different planes. Humans were in the first plane, the world of material. The second plane was the between area—like a street that separated your house and your neighbor's house across. We might pass each other, but we did not stop to socialize. Finally, there was the third plane. No humans could enter this plane—some exceptions did exist, yes, but the number was close to nada. This was where we demons lived. The Other Place. This was your neighbor's house, the one place that you could not enter because you did not have the right key. So, being able to see demons was a good enough of a start—at least we could acknowledge each other across the street. You might say hi to me, really.)

That being said, I guessed it's understandable (but still not acceptable!) why Puck snickered at the possibility that I was employed by another Fabray.

That name alone was notorious amongst us—demons and magicians alike. The man who lived by that name was powerful, probably only second to the king's head magician himself, and people knew that Russell Fabray wore his last name like a medal on his chest because of the respect—that smelled more like fear—it demanded.

(By the way, this point would be in your exam: in this business, you shared your birth name with no one. Not even your close-knit family. Magician apprentices changed their name the moment they realized they were in this. If a demon knew a magician's birth name, he could overthrow the contract that was forced upon him. Knowing an employer's name was equal to finding a broken chalk line on a summoning pentacle or noticing a slip on a spell. Doom for magicians, freedom for us demons.)

For this girl to identify herself as a Fabray, it was like putting a road sign that read 'I'm not reckless enough to let my birth name be known; I'm smart enough to let you know who I am.' And seriously, not even I would want to mess with someone related to a magician who had a marid.

Oh, did I see another hand raised? Geez, children nowadays. Always so impatient, aren't you? Alright, alright. I knew your question already. We demons organized ourselves into classes. The lowest class was the imps. Dumb and annoying and weak—that's who they were. The next class was the foliots. Well, let's just call them cut-price djinnis: stronger than imps but weaker than djinnis. Oh, and I had to give them credits for being good crass laborers.

And then there were my folks: djinnis. Resourceful. Creative. Powerful. With a side dish of danger. In general, djinnis were a band of accomplishers. Our happy family consisted of ranks, but I would simplify that for you and call cockatrices, ghuls, and succubi my first cousins.

The next two classes were the afrits and marids. Afrits were demons of fire, so it was easy to guess what their weakness was. They were stronger than djinnis, but were less resourceful. And they completely lacked of creativity. A magician had to tell afrits _exactly_ what to do. Finally, there were the marids. Well, while marids were so full of themselves, they were the most powerful class of demons. They were rarely summoned, and it took at least two formidable magicians to summon even a low-rank marid. Of course, there was always an exception. Once or twice in time, there was an exceptional magician who could summon a marid on his own.

That man Fabray was one.

Enough with my Demons 101 class and back to reality.

Standing in a pentacle across mine was that girl Fabray. Dark robe over a shoulder held by an eagle pin as usual. Composed demeanor as usual. Impassive expression as usual. She was not even looking at my direction, as if knowing exactly I would be here.

"Yes?" I said. "To what honor do I owe this call that disturbs my nap?"

She still did not look at me, eyes on the far window across the room.

"Hellooo? Anyone in the house?"

Then she turned. Slowly. Slowly. So slowly. Like a wolf who had just spotted its prey. The single spectacle she wore glinted—some magicians wore it to help them see demons more clearly, and she looked at me over the spectacle. And said wolf took a step. Then another. And another. Talk about being dramatic, kid.

I did not know which behavior of hers was more annoying. Was it her indifference to the fact that she summoned me? Was it this habit to step out of her summoning pentacle? Was it a combination of both?

Both, I answered for myself.

"Listen carefully," she said, voice soft, whisper-like, distant, "because I need no pentacle to hold you back."

The nerves!

"Have a human body. Be human-like to the best of your ability." She tilted her head slightly, eyeing the mark only the two of us could see on my left arm, knowing that I was bound to do her will. A corner of her lips pulled down in an odd curve of a faint smile. Still a blank smile, though. "Then you will accompany me to the palace."

I waited. I'm a nice demon, remember?

"You will meet Prince Kurt in the palace, and you will befriend him."

Oh here came the fun part. Was it total world domination? A _coup d'etat_? A secret alliance with a warring country? An eloping plan?

The blank smile disappeared.

Aaand? Come on, kid. Spill! Spill!

Her blonde head was back to its previous straight stance.

I blinked. That's all? To have a human body, meet a prince, and befriend him? That was it? Really?

She turned around, robe flapping behind her, and that was a gesture of dismissal, I knew. That was all. That was it. That was my command.

What kind of command was _that_?

-.-.-.-

Footnote:

[1] Better known as Honorius III. You commoners really know nothing about your history, don't you?


	3. Two

**The Ties that Bind**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: RIB's. The Bartimaeus universe belongs to Jonathan Stroud.

Summary: No demon in her right mind likes any binds. No magician in her right mind thinks of binding as anything but a contract. This is a story of how the impossible shifts and the inevitable happens.

A/N: To all who have reviewed, thank you. To all who will, thank you. I love it when you tell me you enjoy the ride. And, uhm, I finally made a Tumblr account. Do drop by and say hi at pratzwrites dot tumblr dot com.

-.-.-.-

**Chapter 2 of 9**

To whoever said that demons felt nothing, I'd tell them to try to be one.

Because, really, only you humans would make such a big fuss about it.

Let me start with something simple. We demons did not really care whether it was bright or dark. Demons could see just fine in the dark, you know. We were like eagles in daylight, owls at night. Human eyes were so unreliable. When you got older, your sense of sight got weaker. When you had problems in seeing demons, you used magic spectacles. Humans 0, demons 1.

High-five!

However, it was totally different with our somatosensory system.

In the dark, our somatosensory system was way better than yours. You could say that even the slightest stimulus made our sense tingle. Imagine touching the surface of a pond with your fingertip, slowly, ever so slowly. Imagine the ripples that travelled from beneath your finger to the edge of the pond. The farther the edge was, the feebler the ripples were. That was how human's somatosensory system worked. It's different for demons. For us demons, the ripples were as strong as they were when they started beneath your fingertip.

(Some demons were even equipped with much better somatosensory system. I guess that was what made them good succubus and incubus.)

Sometimes, especially when demons were at work (again, I remind you that I refused to use term 'service'), it was a torture.

Like now.

Oddly, the piano-playing old man seemed to notice my discomfort.

"Kind stranger," he called out, his movement slowing down. "I have no intention to make this a public performance, so you are free to go. I wouldn't take long."

Ah. I see. He could not see me in my place on top of one of the gargoyles on the auditorium's balcony, but if he could sense my presence, he must be a magic user.

That was new for me. This man, whom I never really bothered to know more before in these last two weeks, was an ordinary man. His magical ability was far, far below Fabray. He did not dress like a commoner, but he lacked the pompous air of aristocracy that Fabray radiated. And more importantly, he did not look on guard all the time, so unlike Fabray. (By the way, I am merely using her repeatedly as a comparative example. Don't get me wrong.)

I knew almost nothing about him, and that was exactly the reason I approached him tonight.

He continued playing. The melody was soft, as quiet as a doe's whisper. "Today is my baby girl's birthday," he said. "She's an excellent singer. She could be the court's musician if she wanted to. Unfortunately, she couldn't be here."

I listened. I could be a good listener if I wanted to, you know.

"This is her favorite song," he continued. His fingers faltered for a barely noticeable moment, but my superior sense noticed. "I miss her."

This was where I hesitated. Should I speak now? Or should I wait a little more?

"I miss her so much."

At the tremble in his voice, I made up my mind. "What's she like?"

He was surprised. But of course. When you were alone in a creepy, abandoned auditorium, playing the piano for someone who was not there, what could be more alarming than a voice that came from a physically formless being?

He recovered fast, though. I had to give him credit for that. "She's beautiful. Then again, all fathers would say the same thing about their daughter, wouldn't they?" He laughed softly, sadness overlying in his voice. "She's tiny for a person her age. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin a shade darker than other girls' you'd see on the streets. Oh, and she has my nose." He chuckled to himself. "She's everything to me." And his song ended.

I memorized all of it. I would need it later.

He pressed down on the keys for the last time, sliding from the bench. Collecting his lantern, he stood up and fastened his coat. He turned to look at my direction. Of course his human eyes could not see me at all in this pitch darkness. But I could see his staring at me.

"Thank you for listening," he said.

Listening was not my intention, but I ended up replying, "Have a good night, Hiram."

-.-.-.-

There was nothing I hated more than human clothes.

(I know you were taught to not trust demons, I am being totally honest here.)

I looked at the engraved ivory busk at the front part of my corset. Why were female humans so fascinated with this piece of clothing? It was suffocating and much troublesome to wear especially since you could not tie the laces yourselves. Really, if female humans were so fond of pain, they should have been born foliots who built pyramids for Egyptian pharaohs.

First, I had to endure this form—this disgusting human form. And now I had to endure being trapped as a female human in self-torturing clothes!

My eyes caught the heap of clothes that lied on a chair next to the closet. In this form, in this place, in this plane, I was as good as an infant. I was powerless. I needed assistance from others. And close to having to wear human clothes, being made to feel weak is another thing I hated most.

Look at me: already a mess of damn human emotions merely because I could not fit into the damn corset!

The door behind me creaked open.

"What took you so long?"

Uncaring of my semi-naked form, hands on hip to give that effect of looking intimidating, I turned my head. "Help me with this."

She took a step inside the room. Why couldn't I just dress like you, O High and Mighty Employer? Why couldn't I just be gloom and dark like you with that long-sleeved, high-collared shirt and robe and boots?

"Never have I heard a demon order her mistress," she said.

Here's another thing I picked up from Fabray: she basically had two different templates—bored or irritated.

Nevertheless, she stepped closer until she was standing behind me. She was almost a head taller than I was in this human body. Her fingers glided to my waist, hesitant and at the same time observant. In the mirror, my human eyes saw my brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin a shade darker than other girls', and Hiram's nose. In the mirror, my human eyes saw her bowed head, blond hair falling to the left side of her face, almost obscuring her hazel eyes. In the mirror, she looked at me from beneath her eyelashes.

It must be this human body that made me make a swallowing motion without any reasons.

"Tight lacing," she murmured. It was not a question, I knew, but I was a bit surprised that she said it. Like a kind of forewarning. As if she was telling me of what was coming. That was nice for a change.

I sucked in deep breath and was forced to hold it as she pulled, pulled, and pulled on the back lacing of the damn corset. She started with the bottom lace. Breathe, I reminded myself. Two laces above. Breeeathe. Two more laces, this time across my shoulder blades. Breathe! The last one! Finally!

I let go of the breath I had been holding in one harsh exhalation. "You humans and your torturous clothes," I grunted. If she found this humorous, I'd throw her across the room for a lesson, contract be damned.

Her fingers found the edge of the corset, fingertips lingering on the skin they made contact with. Her eyes were above the line of my bare left shoulder. "Turn around," she said, yet not even waiting for me to do it. Her left hand sneaked around my waist and spun me, pulling me, pressing me to her. Eyeing the still open busk at the front of my corset, her right hand left my back to trace the engraving on the busk.

"Shoshannat ha'amaqim." (1)

She looked up, and her eyes met mine. I bet she was surprised, so I shrugged. "What do you expect? I lived in the House of David for a long, long time."

The faintest trace of a smile pulled at the corners of her lips. "Of course."

Corset, done. Flowing gown, down. Dress, all done. First step of the earthly torture, done. The upper part of my body felt ramrod straight.

Wait. There were still the shoes. There was no way I could bend to wear them on my own. Just great, you humans. Just great.

I groaned.

"Sit."

Again, she did not wait and half-pushed me onto the chair. Snagging the pair of pearl white French court shoes from its previous location next to the mirror, she hiked up my dress to my knees and slipped on the shoes to my feet.

"Never have I heard a mistress kneel before a demon," I said, using her previous words.

Saying nothing, she pulled me to my feet. I wobbled. Damn shoes. How long had it been since I last wore a pair of shoes? Now not only my body was trapped, but also my poor toes. (I'm immediately thinking of founding a Demon Employment Association and goes to charge all human torturers.) I would never understand why female humans found standing on a form that elevated their heels thus reducing the balance of the flatness of their soles attractive. Which part of this was attractive, seriously!

"Walk."

Yes, Fabray. I knew. I might not look like it, but I'm a very fast learner of how human bodies work.

"I said walk, not clomp."

Okay. Right foot. Left foot.

"We call that wobbling, not walking."

"Oh shut up," I finally snapped.

Her eyes widened a bit at this insubordination. I guess she had never had it before, being that powerful and domineering. However, that only lasted for several seconds before she scowled under her breath.

"Watch." She took my left hand in her right one. "Do it like me." Then she walked with me on her side. We walked side by side until I got the hang of it. (Hey, I can't be blamed. The last time I walked on human feet was like decades ago.) She varied the steps from slow to quick and slow again. Ladylike. Even with her not-so ladylike shirt and robe, she was all ladylike. That walking stance. That head, chin up and looking ahead. That straight shoulder stance. I could imagine her enemies trodden beneath her toes like worthless ants as she sauntered across the room.

We circled the room. Once. Twice. I watched her—and felt, as much as I could in this reduced state. My walking became like hers, but it was not hers.

Nobody could ever walk like her.

"You need no mark for this," she murmured as we stopped in front of the mirror again.

I followed the direction of her eyes. Oh. That mark of hers on my left hand.

She held my hand steady, thumb rubbing the skin of my wrist, outlining the shape of the mark, softly. With each swipe of her thumb, the lines disappeared one by one, as if the ink of a picture had been seeped into my flesh instead of a piece of paper.

Not even once did she let go of my hand through this ordeal.

Her eyes found mine again, and in that instant she snapped back to my cold, distant employer.

"Remember your command, Berry."

As if I needed another reminder, Fabray.

-.-.-.-

The prince whom she told me to befriend was unlike other princes I had met. Prince Kurt was loquacious though soft-spoken, and he had the same sparkles in his eyes like David had when Fabray said he and I shared the same fondness of music.

"How should I call you, milady?" he asked politely after he landed a soft kiss at the back of my hand—court greeting and stuff. My employer had left the two of us after she introduced me to him. "I wish to call you not by your family name, if you please."

Well, _that_ I wasn't prepared for. "Oh—uhm," I cleared my throat. "Surely Your Highness needs not to know my unworthy name."

"Nonsense." He laughed. "And stop with the court talk, please. Speak to a friend like you speak to a friend."

I drew a deep breath. Think, woman—demon! Think!

"Rachel," I breathed out. "Please call me Rachel."

Prince Kurt's face brightened. "It's a beautiful name."

I thought of David and thanked him wherever he was now for telling me stories about his ancestors.

Prince Kurt leaned closer to whisper in my ear, as if afraid of eavesdroppers. "How long have you been friends with the Fabrays?"

"Uhm—not too long," I replied. I'm an expert. Court talk and making up stories? I could handle that. "We met a few months ago when they were on a holiday, and she invited me to the Capital. So here I am, Your Highness."

"Please." He waved a hand to dismiss my addressing him. "Call me Kurt."

I nodded.

"But that's good," he said. "I didn't know they're the type to go on a holiday. I mean, Master Russell never strikes me as one. But Quinn..." he paused.

Quinn.

So that was her name.

Quinn Fabray.

"Anyway," Prince Kurt coughed once, politely, "I'm just glad to know she's finally taking my advice to not be too hard on herself."

He continued to talk, but I was distracted. Too distracted.

Remember what happened when we demons knew the birth name of our employer? No more contract. No more bowing and obeying and following their whims. Freedom.

I just have to try my luck, right?

But boy, when I said Prince Kurt talked a lot, he really did. He talked about his love of opera and his dream of visiting Paris and New York (oh if only I could tell him that _I_ built that city), about his father the king who had grown weary of the dispute among his aides regarding the American colonies, about ministers who basically only lived to humor the king, and about his step-brother.

That bit was interesting, though, because he told me that Prince Step-brother used to be in a romantic relationship with my employer.

(Let's see if I could use that detail against her.)

We parted but not before he made me promise that I would come to visit again for a walk tomorrow. I could understand his eagerness, though. Being that young and in a court full of hypocrites and hunger-for-power aides, having a peer that shared the same interest must be a blessing. I found that ironical because, well, I was only here for a purpose.

Prepare yourself for a blessing in disguise, Prince.

-.-.-.-

My now-first-named employer picked me up from that evening walk, the ever-present disinterest on her face looking worse. If there was anything she shared with Prince Kurt, it must be their apparent dislike of court life.

"I believe you did not fall on your face and humiliate yourself," she said. Again, not a question. "You are in one piece, I see."

Okaaay. I did not expect that. Was she trying to make a joke?

We walked through the long corridor in the west wing of the palace. The high window provided enough light from the dying evening sunrays. She walked a few steps in front of me, robe billowing behind her, blond hair reaching her shoulder blades. The light fell on her right shoulder, her silhouette stretching to on the floor. Between the window and her shadow, she had never looked more surreal.

We came across a group of three ladies. They looked as aristocrat as Fabray did, but they were nowhere near her level. I spent most of my lifetime in a court, after all; I could tell a natural-born that fit and a natural-born that would not fit no matter what.

"Fabray," one of them, the one who walked in the center, greeted stiffly.

"Fitzgerald," she replied, equally stiff. "Wharton. Barnaby."

The one Fabray identified as Barnaby grunted. "It must not be a good day for I see your warmongering face again here."

Excuse me? Warmongering? Oh you Lady Barnaby with poor observation skills, perhaps you should learn from me that the only two operational modes of my employer's face were bored and irritated. Warmongering was not an option.

My employer said nothing, but from behind her I could see her shoulders tense.

"Well, good day to you then, Fabray. I would not want to impede you on your way to be between a minister's legs." Lady Fitzgerald covered her mouth with her fan and laughed, none too politely.

Hey, that was low.

"Oh right, Adia." The last lady—must be Wharton—joined in the laugh fest the last. "Now that Prince Finn lost his interests, our dear friend here must be in a hunt for a new suitor."

The three of them brushed past me, and I thought that was all. Their dear friend Fabray was not the type to get riled easily, after all.

I was proven wrong.

In the same way the air crackled and hissed in low burn as I was trapped in her pentacle two weeks ago, the caged beast snapped.

The ground burst open and invisible blades of pressure sliced the air. Acting on instinct, I ducked and covered my head. I heard shocked gasps and pained screams as Lady Mean, Lady Poor Observant, and Lady Slow Brain jumped around to avoid the slicing. To no avail, though. I still found the three ladies in pitiful condition: covered in torn clothes, cuts, and dust. The pressure slowly slackened (it was not even a minute, and it's that bad for them), but it was not enough.

"Fabray, stop," I tried. Damn magician who did not even need a spell did not even turn to see the result of her doings. I was not responsible for those three ladies' lives and I sure did not mind if my employer was arrested for this, but something in me told me that this had to stop. "Quinn!"

It felt as if you were dangled three-feet-high in the air by somebody, and the person just suddenly dropped you. She did not even look affected at all in the middle of cracked tiles and wounded ladies.

Then it was a blur as she took a hold of my wrist and dragged me away from the ladies and to an empty room at the end of the corridor. I could not even feel my human feet as I was forced to keep up with her strides. I was not even sure if it was my back colliding with the wall or the door slamming close that rang in my ears.

"As you see," she drawled, an arm pressed against the base of my throat. She was so close. Thigh to thigh. Hip to hip. Chest to chest. Too close. I could not breathe. "I do not need a spell to use magic." She added the pressure of her arm. Air. I need air. "I, too, do not need to remind you why you are here."

She pulled back harshly, leaving no hint of that elegant poise that I kinda liked. I coughed, human lungs drawing in air as much as they could. My legs felt like jelly, and not even being barefooted (somehow along the dragging I have lost my shoes) could prevent me from sliding down the wall.

"Sadly, it is not my birth name," she said, right hand finding my left wrist, calling the tap-tap-tap sensation of her mark as it woke up. The tepid feeling slowly chased away my human senses and replaced them with demon senses, and it did not stop as it rose higher.

I have told you about our somatosensory sense, but have I told you that all stimuli we received when we were bound to a contract were intensified? All the touches, the temperature, the proprioception, and the nociception were magnified. For you humans, it made us better workers. Feel good, so go to work. Work harder, or experience the worst.

Her mark burnt fiercely from within me in a complete contrast to the coldness in her eyes.

Damn my superior demon senses.

Damn Quinn Fabray for feeling like fire and tasting like ice.

-.-.-.-

(1) You humans probably are more familiar with 'lily of the valley.' Well, I prefer the Hebrew name, though.


	4. Three

**The Ties that Bind**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: RIB's. The Bartimaeus universe belongs to Jonathan Stroud.

Note: unbetaed, so every crappy grammatical error is mine. And it's been long since I last updated, no? If you are still following this story, you have my gratitude. My schedule this semester is crazy, so I won't be able to update regularly. In the mean time, I post drabbles on my Tumblr account. Writing is therapeutic that way, you know. Oh, and I have a hint for you: Russell is not just who he seems in this chapter.

-.-.-.-

**Chapter 3 of 9**

Who have thought that even breathing was such a privilege?

I wheezed for the million times today. My oh-so powerful mistress had been depriving me of the Other Place for some time. We demons need the Other Place just like you humans need food. When we work for our masters, we use the energy that we absorb from the Other Place. When work is done, we go back to replenish our power. The Other Place is my feast, my home, my mother. Now, exiled and trapped in this body, I was no better than an orphan.

I'm sorry—what? Oh, you need a little rewind to get what the hell this is all about? Alright. Forgive me for forgetting how feeble is your memory. So... remember the time when Fabray snapped at three tactless ladies at the court? They were foolish, I admitted, and provoking a magician when they themselves were commoners was equal to taking a jump from the tower of Babylon. I would say that Fabray's show off was so unlikely of her, but who was I to talk? It was a good show, and I found it humorous.

She, on the other hand, did not.

Therefore, I had two ideas of why I hadn't been allowed to return to the Other Place. One, she didn't like my witnessing her outburst—especially since it's petty and foolish. Surely her holier-than-thou pride couldn't handle the shattering end of her image as a composed magician whose feathers could never be ruffled. Two, she didn't like my little stunt of disobedience when I tried to get the upper hand of our contract. Well, it turned out that 'Quinn Fabray' was not her birth name. I failed, and I could accept that. And I moved on. World peace, please.

And yet, here I was: still punished by my unforgiving mistress.

(Oh shut up. I was hungry and grumpy. Could you blame me that I wasn't above playing the victim here?)

Another wheezed sigh escaped my mouth, louder, and I couldn't help worrying that it would break the silence in this humongous library. I meant, I knew I was supposed to meet her, but for the last fifteen minutes (human time—so annoying of a system) I had been watching her.

Truth be told, Fabray might as well be a goddamn statue there. Standing between two pillars next to the tall window, she had been looking out the window ever since I started watching her. Practicing Oriental meditation, perhaps? Well, who knew. There was nothing special outside. Her window faced a rather secluded yard of the palace. Fleetingly, I heard girlish laughter from outside. Was that what Fabray was so keen on watching?

Then her back straightened, and I knew immediately that she's aware of my presence. "I do not approve your snooping around," she said, still not turning to face me.

I was so tempted to give in to the humanly temptation of rolling my eyes.

"You are late."

"Obviously," I countered. "I can't help walking slower to ration what's little left of my energy." I refused to take a seat, but I also didn't want to stand near her. Stubborn as it might seem, I didn't need her pity. She knew perfectly that I needed to return to the Other Place, and if she's keeping me here to ensure my cooperation, she would have to deal with what I could be now: a very cranky human-materialized demon that would not cooperate so easily.

She looked at me over her shoulder. "My father will be here soon."

Why yes, the reason I was given a command to go all the way from her mansion to the palace was because of her father. I wondered if she's going to flaunt me as a kind of trophy—a demon she managed to enslave. And not just a low demon. King David's teacher. Builder of New York City. I would make a huge, golden trophy.

Her mark flared all over my arm as irritation grew inside me.

And perhaps it's the irritation—mixed with exhaustion and hunger—that clouded my normally flawless reflex. A few strands of my hair were singed as a ball of fire blazed above my head, and I only missed it for barely an inch as it crashed against another fireball. They bounced against the pillar Fabray had leaned against, leaving a terrible burn mark. Splinters of the pillar rained on me as I lost my balance and fell on my bottom.

"Father!"

I looked up sharply at her indignant cry.

A tall, well-built man was standing on the doorway. He must be the one who sent the first fireball at me.

(The second was definitely Fabray's. I didn't exactly know why. Perhaps she's just reacting out of reflex to an attack. If she really did it to protect me, I would laugh my way to human death, no kidding. I mean, look at that. Just as I thought my life couldn't get any worse, her father attacked me unprovoked. Wasn't that great? What did I do again to deserve this much rubbish from this family?)

"Why is _she_ here?"

From the way he spat the words, I took it that Fabray Senior was more concerned about my appearance than my being a demon. Seriously? A misogynist much, eh?

"She's _my_ demon," Fabray the Younger said. "Have I not told you that I planned to bring her along to your counsel?"

His face hardened. The same cheek profile, the same mouth line, and the same pair of eyes. Oh well. The same gene materialized in the same features. Only, his were shadowed by detachment and silent fury. "There is no counsel that I can give today," he said coldly. "I will see you at home later."

Fabray the Younger growled under her breath but said nothing.

"From now on, do not let me see your filthy demon again."

The nerves!

This time, it's her voice that turned cold. "I can do whatever I want to my demon."

He seemed considering something before saying, "Not against my order."

This family was messed up, I'm sure. Just as the daughter was an ass, the father was an obnoxious bastard who attacked _a (human) girl_ and left as if he hadn't just tried to commit a homicide. Swear to Lord Lucifer, Russell Fabray was immediately on my top list of people who I would not work for if ever.

Fabray pulled me back to my feet with a hand on my arm. "He hates your kin."

She's not apologizing for her father, I know. An explanation was all a demon could hope from a master.

I yanked my arm free of her hold. "He didn't almost roast me because I'm a demon."

"I gather." For the first time, a hint of frustration seeped into her voice—and she knew I noticed it. "It matters not. It is not his contract."

I leaned against a pillar, trying to regularize my breathing. (Humans and their fragile lungs!) Looking out, I saw some children play skipping rope as their mothers cheered for them nearby. Ignorant people of this world, really, looking so happy as if there's nothing wrong with life. Surely they had no idea of what magicians like the Fabrays were capable to do.

Wait. This was what has got Fabray so engrossed a few minutes before?

...Huh.

"Go back and wait in the mansion. Do not try to flee."

I snickered. "As if I can." Then, just for a good mock, I pulled up my sleeve and showed her mark.

She looked at me in the eye for a while before taking her leave, saying, "Do as you are told."

-.-.-.-

I ended up slouching on the stone windowsill in an alcove in one of the two watchtowers in the Fabray mansion. (Too many adverbs of place, eh? Who cares. You humans and your spiffy grammar.) The unoccupied space was cold, but at least the wind felt good—which in itself was a rarity in this time of year. The end of autumn in London had never been friendly to humans and demons alike. With Halloween passing, more demons were sought after and employed in preparation for winter and the New Year. Indeed, we demons were busiest until spring came.

The stonewall behind my head felt unforgivingly solid and cold. Just like Fabray. The elder, pretty much more. Though, of course, the younger wasn't faring any better. Bad blood ran in the family, didn't it?

Was she going to keep me in the human world until spring? Surely she knew what that meant, didn't she? I'm not a marid, and even the strongest marid couldn't be kept away from the Other Place for too long. Was she planning to drain me of my energy? Then again, what for? Resources?

"You are thinking too loud."

"Whatever."

Puck materialized next to me. He took in my appearance quietly, cursing. "You look like shit."

Sunken eyes, raspy breathing, and pale skin meant shit? Well. He could have come up with better words, actually. Sadly, words were not Puck's forte. "Then don't look."

He touched me on the shoulder. Good grief, it feels so, so good! The Other Place ran in him so richly it made my mouth literally water with hunger. The idea of my feeding off him made me sick with shame, but I could care less for now. I need energy!

"I told you it's gonna suck to work for a Fabray."

"Fabrays. They both suck, Puck."

He shrugged. "That man is not one you can mess with. He made his name in the First and Second Boer War, you know, wrecking Afrikaan magicians here and there as if they were rag dolls. The British Army wouldn't have won if it's not because of him. Even Chamberlain listens to him and his whim."

Right. It must have slipped my mind to check on Fabray Senior's track record. Thank you for the reminder, Puck.

"Make or break, Berry." He seemed to know my sarcastic thought—good for him. "It's now either you triumph or die."

I exhaled loudly, snickering. "Dying is a human term."

"And look at _what_ you are now," he retorted, shaking his head.

I missed that—having my own head, I meant. Not this hair-covered, skull-protected head of human. Which kept aching the longer I depended more on air and less on the Other Place's connection.

"Settle your business once and for all," Puck said before disappearing. He himself had business to do and master to work for—and apparently, his master was much better than mine. A prince in the palace, if I remembered correctly.

Well, yeah. Leave me be in my despair, sitting here on my own, looking at the vast greenery that was the backyard of the mansion, cursing my luck (again, human term) for being contracted by a Fabray. Dramatic much? Leave me be!

My mark seared into life on my arm, but for once I couldn't bring myself to care. I _am_ a respectable djinni, not some imp or foliot she could beckon at a flick of her fingers. Besides, she could trace me. She could find me. She was bound to the contract as much as I was to it.

And I guessed that's what she did.

I had told you before she snapped under the provocation of three dumb ladies that Fabray only had two expressions. Right now, irritation was what she put on.

Her steps were loud in the empty hall, and I suspected that all she wanted was to give a nice push to throw me out the window. I would fall like a lifeless doll, she would laugh, and in the end I would know that this contract was just a joke to her. After all, the biggest blow you could land on your enemy was not death but humiliation.

"I knelt before you once to put on your shoes. Now I am made to come and get you," she said in that sickeningly even tone of hers. (Dear Lord Amon, could she be more irritating?)

"I'm preserving my energy."

Stopping, she now stood next to me. "The djinni who built New York City is too weak to walk down the stairs?"

I shrugged. "You told me to wait in the mansion. You didn't exactly tell _where_ in the mansion I should be."

There was a tick on one corner of her mouth. "And yet your brain is not too tired to find a flaw in my command."

She did that on purpose, didn't she? How dare she!

She considered my silence for a moment, then stating, "You fed off another demon."

"Yeah, I've just had a snack."

If she was surprised, she hid it well. "It does not work that way."

"Eating your kin and absorb their energy? Not as good as the Other Place, but that will do." (Of course, humans are appalled by cannibalism, aren't you? Well, demons are basically one single being, bred in the Other Place. Our energy cycle is basically a give-and-take process. Power, on the other hand, is different. A fire djinni like Puck, for example, can't just take the power of a water djinni. Humans are simpler; your energy and power are basically the same.) "Or are you telling me because it's not written in your text book, it doesn't exist?"

She nodded, once, easily—the most laidback reaction I got from her so far. "How does it feel?"

Huh? How did it feel to feed off another demon? Or how did it feel to rely on your kin as a source of energy? Were you playing another mind game just to see how far I could go to find your flaw, Fabray?

Yet before I had a chance to ask, she continued, "How does it feel to be weak?"

If I were Puck, I would have answered, _Suck_.

Then again, Fabray of the highest kind of stuck-up magician and enigmatic question would not be satisfied with that kind of answer. I felt like a Guinea pig under her scrutiny. Was she planning to study demons by using me? What's the purpose? Why did she need to know us demons more than just a tool in performing magic? And most importantly, why did _I_ have to think of all these questions!

"I hate it."

In lack of better words, it simplified everything. It also magnified this humiliation. Of course she wouldn't understand it. Being able to perform magic without spell—heck, even without summoning, she wouldn't understand. You couldn't make a fish understand drought until you took it out of the water.

"I hate this—this dependence. On my kin. On the contract. On _you_."

Well, technically, the only thing sustaining me now was the contract, so I wasn't wrong to say that it made me dependent on her. And it made me hate this whole ordeal even more. Who was she to dispossess me of my independence? Who was she to take my self-sustenance against my will? Who was she to summon and declare that I was to be _her_ demon?

She moved to sit at the other end of the windowsill, the tip of my shoes almost touching her robe. She didn't look at me; instead, her eyes had a faraway look she directed to the land before the mansion. Even though her power oozed from her in the way it made my hunger worse, I was seriously considering just tipping myself off, pulling her with me, and falling to our death together. It would be the best revenge. For her, getting killed by a humiliated, starved demon; for me, a glorious end.

So imagine my surprise when she took a hold of my hand, her lean fingers encircling my wrist loosely, weighing this human hand of mine calmly. If I were in my demon form now, my somatosensory sense would have exploded. Everything began with a touch, and to have this powerful container of so much power touching me was torture, pure torture.

Then I felt her magic seep into me. If the Other Place was an ocean, Fabray was a river. Calm and deep, quiet and endless. The kind of river humans adored so in fall. She pulled up my sleeve, and I saw the tendrils of her mark slowly crawled to my upper arm, growing on my skin in intricate patterns I'd grown to be familiar with. It usually flared to life in a hot demand of impatience, but now it was warm and I couldn't help but shuddering in its wake. (It's much better than feeding off Puck, but it's still not enough. A river was a pale comparison when you needed an ocean. But for now... yeah.)

Beneath thick eyelashes, her eyes were this brilliant hue of hazel.

(Sounded disgustingly human, I knew, and it's stupid of me to think like that.)

Fabray's thumb rubbed gently on the human veins on my wrist. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was _gentle_. But no. Big no. She's controlling and calculating. I must not stay being immersed in her—what would you call this? What was this? Charity?

The hell she's doing with me.

"Which one?"

She hummed lowly, the only sign that she heard my whispered question.

"Which one was it that you wanted to be?" At this, her eyes rose to meet mine. "When you were in the library, looking at that group of girls and their mothers." The way her face hardened reminded me of her father, but I didn't stop. "Did you wish you were one of the girls, able to play with your peers as a normal girl should?" By now her face was red from fury. "Or did you wish to have one of those mothers—a mother who would stand by you despite your having a scoundrel of a father?"

Until that moment, I had never seen even a miniscule of fracture in her, not even when she snapped a few days ago. But I did today. I did, and to be honest I didn't find it entertaining. It's not more than a second, but something broke through her demeanor and there was so much agony on her expression that even the demon-me would recoil.

Then it's all gone, and I wondered if it were just my imagination. She let go of my wrist and stood. I wasn't thrown against the wall or strangled this time, but I felt suffocated. Was breathing for humans related to palpable tension? Why did I feel as if somebody just threw me into an abyss?

"None of them."

She sounded _so_ steady I winced.

"I am not as weak as you to want to be someone or somewhere else."

And the walls that shot up in her eyes made my human chest tighten in something akin to pain.

-.-.-.-

Note:

A lot of you complained that there are many a mention you didn't really understand. That kind of complaint made me want to sigh dramatically, you know, because there are also many a time the finiteness of your human brain hurt me. No seriously, humans. This is a log by a demon; get over your fickle human sense and logic and see things _my_ way. When I told you before to know who Honorius III and what he wrote before, did you do that? No? Then I guess you wouldn't bother to be curious of who and what, say, Russell Fabray was capable to do. Or why Puck knew Chamberlain—Joseph, that is, not Austen or Neville—and why it's such a big thing that he listened to Fabray Senior.

Okay, fine. Stop the whining. Now, your first lesson of World History is that you need to know that London was kind of a hot stuff here. And by hot I mean really hot. The kind of hot that could decide your country's fate. Across the pond, that little country that used to be a colony of London was flourishing—in the way that London wasn't totally pleased with. See, now you know why a bunch of London magicians behaved in the holier-than-thou manner (Fabray Junior included); they've got things they're worried about. Add the problem with the power struggle between Rome (why yes, Honorius' long-standing domain) and Jerusalem (sweet home Jerusalem no more, that is) into that. Think of London as an old man whose son kept giving him a headache from his misbehaving and whose wife and mistress were competing to get the better of him. Poor old London, don't you agree?

Thus, if you read my note on how ladies behaved in the royal court, Fabray Junior's lash-out included, you'd get the idea of how stressful it was to be part of that kind of London. Hell, even the King himself was stressed out, and hell forbid his weak son Edward David would inherit the throne. Even I shuddered from thinking of what power-hunger magicians would do if the old monarchy collapsed.

As for my history with Fabray Junior, well, you have to follow this log. I'm not going to be more accommodating than this.

Off for now,

Berry


	5. Four

**The Ties that Bind**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: RIB's. The Bartimaeus universe belongs to Jonathan Stroud.

AN: Hey, how you all are doing? I spent most of my time after spring semester ended traveling, so I didn't really allocate time for writing. A lot of names and events mentioned here are of actual history—you might want to Google them later. I'm happy to know that some people are still following this story, and I hope you'll find this chapter to your liking!

-.-.-.-

**Chapter 4 of 9**

I spent a few following weeks after Fabray's cold dismissal in the royal library. I was still hungry for the Other Place, still weak from the lack of power, but it wasn't as unbearable as the first few days. Fabray's power did that, I guess. Still, it was humiliating—to be dependent upon a employer. Hmph. (And apparently it showed in my latest entries. Puck said I spoke in paragraphs; he would be delighted to see how choppy, inarticulate I was. Well, preserving my being was of a higher importance to me now than articulating my point with glossing that would reach even an ape's intelligence. Hm? Was what that? Were you laughing at me, humans? Oh shut up, you humans knew nothing, zip, nil, nada about _mental hunger_.)

When would this be over and done? What's the purpose? Why did Fabray do this? She didn't need to starve me to make sure I obeyed the contract down to a T. Hell, she alone would be enough—and don't even try to bring her girl-throwing knave of a father into the picture. Even I, being a strong, legendary djinn, knew that both Fabrays were more than enough to overpower an afrit. (Well, to say they could handle a marid was tempting, but I lacked of proof.)

_Then why didn't you look for more proof instead of sitting here playing a scholar,_ a part of me asked myself.

Annoying. Really annoying. I started having more conversation with myself lately, and I didn't like it. It's what you humans did! A demon wouldn't! If only I could shut it—_me_—up.

Or perhaps that's why I was here, reading books upon books to enlighten myself with what was going on with the world outside. Your human world, alright? Not mine. Which I didn't need to, actually. Again, how annoying.

Then there was a string of hushed sounds slithered to reach my human ears.

I _knew_ these voices.

"—is to counsel His Majesty to our very best on this subject."

"It is perfectly what I do."

"A war is not the answer.'

"We _are_ at war." The hissed response was stressed, strong and leaving no space for arguments. "What do you think our American colonies are doing? Do you think they're having the time of their life, sipping tea and enjoying the weather? No! They're building an army. Preparing themselves for a war. Coming for us. You know it, Hiram. Hell, His Majesty knows it, too. And what does he do? Nothing! I can suffer a weak king, but not a stupid one."

"It is still an assumption."

"I'd rather hit first than become a laughing stock for Rome or Jerusalem."

"They will not partake in our domestic affair."

"They will partake in whatever will bring our kingdom down."

I was not supposed to continue eavesdropping, I knew, but hey. Russell Fabray and Hiram? Discussing a—a war? I'd be damned if I didn't.

"You are not thinking clearly, Russell."

"Oh I am, old friend. I am. And I act."

I slipped quickly to hide myself behind one of the pillars in the history section as I saw Russell ended his counsel with Hiram and left, his robe billowing behind him. His face was hard, nostrils flaring in pent-up anger, his eyes cold. I saw Hiram took a breath and schooled his expression to appear unimpassioned. Then he too left in the same direction where Russell was heading.

Moving closer to the window, I saw that he caught up with Russell and another man in the courtyard of the royal library. I knew that man from the books I'd been reading. Joseph Chamberlain, Secretary of State for the Colonies and Russell's direct superior in the First and Second Boer Wars. As Puck had said, Russell Fabray made his name in those wars, proving himself to be equal to the caliber of Frederick Roberts and Herbert Kitchener. Afrikaan magicians were no rival to three of the now most well known, if not the strongest, magicians in the British Empire. Roberts and Kitchener might have outranked Fabray Senior in rank and experience, but even Chamberlain knew that the man not someone to cross—an understatement of the century, yes.

Chamberlain, Hiram, and Russell seemed to be engaged in yet another serious discussion while walking away from the courtyard. I couldn't listen to them, but from Russell's red face and Chamberlain's resigned expression, I could guess that Russell had the upper hand of the discussion.

That was... interesting.

A war, huh?

Well, warmongering Fabrays were perfect for the job. No doubt about it. And judging from their temper, I would not be surprised if the number of enemy magicians that fell like rag dolls—Puck's term—in front of the Fabrays was greater than that of the Boer Wars.

Speaking of which, it had been long since I last saw Fabray Junior.

-.-.-.-

My question was answered two days later in the form of sudden flaring pain that awakened me from my sleep—not that I could sleep well with this starvation, really. Her mark on my left arm was burning, and the pain stabbed a million needles into me, deep, so deep they reached my bones. Fabray! What the hell!

_I summon you_.

I was forced to leave my human body, an unseen force pulling me roughly as if flaying me alive. Her summon was unforgiving, and it squeezed my entire self, human and demon both. My insides felt like they jumped to my throat and were ready to spill out. I was known to be dramatic, riveting, thrilling, but this pain was _thespian_.

_Come._

Then when I opened my eyes, I was in front of her, staggering to stay on my shaking feet and gasping for breath. I felt boneless. I was back to my demon body, and the first assault on my sense was the metallic stench of blood. Instant nausea hit me. Then my surrounding became clearer. It was a clearing of a forest, dark as the night. An unmoving body lied across a pile of broken trees and dead horses. His outfit was of the noble garb.

I found my employer leaning against a tree. Bruised, bloodied, but alive. Her pentacle, drawn with blood, decorated the right thigh of her white equestrian pants. Her left arm was bent in an odd angle, the sleeve torn and the skin scrapped. She had a long gash on her left temple, but even when slicked by blood and sweat, her eyes were shrewd.

"Shit," I cursed aloud, gasping, my demon tongue hard and heavy in my mouth. "What—"

"Bring me home."

Though still disoriented, I knew it was a command.

I didn't know how I managed to bring her back to the Fabray Mansion. I forced open the door to the chamber of the Fabray Mansion's physician, Bradley Ellis—a learned man whom I found not annoying because of his fondness of music. The commotion roused guards and attracted castellans. Shit. One wrong move and I could be mistaken as an enemy demon. I must haven't thought clearly.

"Hide," Quinn said. "You must not be seen." The _in your demon form_ part went unsaid but understood.

The pain from her wound was too great a torture for me. Weakened and half dying, I went back to my human form's room and curled into myself on the cold floor. I didn't even have the energy to drag myself to the bed. My arm still throbbed with what was left of Fabray's last summon and I still felt nauseous, but at least I was no longer in a _mortal_ danger.

Because_ she_ was no longer in a mortal danger.

-.-.-.-

I woke up some time later, still groggy from the unexpected power trip, still trembling from both the cold and the hunger. My ears picked up a quiet conversation wafting from the room next to mine. Her room. A man's voice. And hers. Was she up already? Tended to? Healed?

"—Lord Roberts' body will be interred in the palace before the burial. His death is a big loss for our country." A pause. "But I'm glad you're safe."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Quinn, you know it's Finn for you. Come on."

"Thank you, Finn."

Oh. That must be Kurt's brother. The crown prince.

Their conversation continued and she had more visitors that evening, but I needed fresh air more than I needed to know what she was discussing with her fellow nobles. I opened a window, breathing in the cool evening air, and the realization that my human form was so glad to be able to breathe it in made me sick with disgust.

Curse her for making me get used to this body and its world and all its needs.

From the tidbits I gathered, I learned that there was an ambush upon her and that Lord Roberts when they took their night ride. Where did I hear that name before? Ah yes. He's one of the Boer Wars troika, that Lord Roberts. So that was the man in noble garb from last night. He's maimed. Fabray survived. It wouldn't be a big deal—people killed and got killed everyday—if it wasn't for the missing attacker.

Jolly crown prince and his camaraderie believed that it was possibly conducted by an enemy. Bloemfontein, Rome, Jerusalem, perhaps. Or even the American colonies. Fingers were ready to point, but they didn't know where to point.

But I knew better. I was sustained by Fabray's power long enough it made me familiar with the characteristics of her magic. I could recognize its residue even when nobody else could. I _did_ know better.

And that was why I slipped into her room late at night.

Her back straightened as she became aware of my presence in her room, but she still didn't look up from her book. Gone was the broken figure from yesterday. In her place now was a typical Fabray: rigid and alerted and cold. Her left arm was in a sling, though I doubted she had any more serious injuries. (Magicians, remember? They did more wonders than any bonesetters to commoners.)

"I do not remember to have invited you."

"It wasn't an ambush," I said.

_It was you._

Her right hand stopped mid-way flipping a page of the book she was reading.

Of course. Nobody would suspect that it was not an ambush but a _duel_. I'd seen humans practice magic for millennia to know the difference between a malicious attack and a disinterested attack, and I knew Fabray. I knew the offense and defense of her magic. She must have opened an attack on Lord Roberts when his guard was down. Taken by surprise, he must have attacked back. Too late. He must have been a fool to think he could get an upper hand over Fabray. (Not that I was proud of her, no. But let's be honest: I wouldn't be employed by a meek magician). He must have never seen how she snapped at the three girls that day, without a spell and without a demon aid. He might have been a powerful magician and managed to land a blow or two upon Fabray, but he was old and unguarded, and Fabray was—Fabray was everything he wasn't. She's younger, more powerful, and more skillful.

I could imagine the crack of bones and squish of blood as the old lord fell to his death. Fabray then would have mask the incident as an ambush and summoned me with the remnant of her strength.

Smart. Very smart. But not smart enough to fool me.

"For a pretender, you're not very convincing."

She closed her book. "I was not trying to. I knew you would figure it out." She stood from her chair. "I would not have bound you in a contract from the beginning if you are less perceptive."

But—why would she—_oh_.

She did it on purpose. She wanted me to figure it out.

Manipulative lass!

But why did she? To set something in motion? What something? I knew she was hiding more things from me, but what were they? She was my contractor, my employer; it's not as if I could object to her biding. If she bode me to kill someone, anyone, I would do so. That's my part of the contract. Even though I could—and would—try to find a flaw in her intricate scheme, she didn't have to hide a biding from me.

"I am going to bed," she announced.

Then what? Was I welcome to prolong my stay? Wasn't it folly to let your enemy stay close to you? (Trapped in this human body, even a letter opener knife on her desk was so, so tempting.) "I could kill you in your sleep, you know."

She let out a soft, cold laugh. "I would kill you first."

Both of us knew it was the truth.

-.-.-.-

Two days later, I was in the library when the king made a public statement regarding of what he called 'the tragic death of a warrior, a long time defender of the kingdom, a dear friend.' London would enhance the security observance throughout her empire. From America far north to Terra Australia down south, there would be 'police actions in unsettled areas' and a promise of 'swift retribution for those who do not comply with the order.' It was not mentioned, but everybody with even half my intelligence would realize that it was aimed to the restless American colonies.

Russell, Secretary of Treasure, stood next to the king during the broadcast, and his haughty expression told me that the king's speech was not totally his own. I had a sense that soon Russell would get the war he wanted. Was this the thing that the Fabrays tried to set in motion?

Soon the library was filled with anxious murmurs and whispers about the prospect of a bigger conflict with the colonies or rival countries, and I found it my safe haven no more.

And of all people I could bump into, I bumped into Hiram as I exited the library's secluded section.

His hand quickly reached out to prevent me from falling, and his eyes widened behind his round spectacles as he took in my face.

(I guess it would happen to everyone whose _dead_ daughter was modeled after for a demon's form.)

"I apologize for not paying attention of where I walk," he began, "Lady..."

"Rachel."

"Rachel," he repeated. Then his face softened. "You remind me so much of someone I hold dear to my heart," he murmured softly, and for a moment his eyes went glassy. "Oh my. Pardon this old man his discourteousness, my lady."

"No, my lord. It's alright."

"Are you," he paused, taking in my appearance fully now, "a regular patron of this library or merely dropping by for a visit?" He smiled kindly. "I am the Head Librarian. May I offer you my service as to redeem my faults?"

"I'm well, my lord."

"Please. I insist."

I swallowed. "Actually, I'm waiting for someone, Lord..."

"Hiram," he said. His eyes twinkled as he smiled. "No family name."

But I knew that already. Heck, I knew more about him from his secret sessions in the old public auditorium. Hiram the Head Librarian: a man of no significant lineage rising from below to enter the service of the king with acute liking to music and endless bitter memories of his dead daughter.

I swallowed again. "Lord Hiram, yes. I'm waiting for—for—" I couldn't mention a Fabray, could I. Double shit. "Dr Bradley Ellis. Yes. I'm waiting for him."

"Dr Ellis? As in Dr Ellis who serve the Fabrays?"

"Yes, yes. He's an acquaintance of mine."

"I see." Hiram nodded. "He's a good man, that doctor. Have a good sense of music as well. I heard he was occupied lately because of an ambush upon young Lady Fabray. Please send him my greetings."

"I will, I will, Lord Hiram."

"And to young Lady Fabray, too. She used to visit the library ofttimes, you see. Nothing pleases me more than young people with appreciation of the written words. Yet I guess now that she's growing up, she has more important matters to attend."

Oh believe me, she did.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, my lady," Hiram said. "Please let me know if you visit the library again."

"Thank you, Lord Hiram. The pleasure's all mine."

I hurriedly left him without a glance. The corridor felt twice longer when I knew that he was staring at my back. Of all the people, really. Such great luck I had.

And young Quinn was an avid reader. Huh. I wondered when she decided that books had run out their charm and became the stuck-up magician she was today. Was it magic? Was it her father? Was it London's tense atmosphere of royal fuckery?

"Rachel?"

Oh royal fuckery, indeed.

Kurt the jolly prince was approaching me with a wide smile on his face. Seriously? What was this place again? A place where everybody was friend with everybody?

I bit back a scowl and put a smile on. "Greetings, Your Majesty."

Kurt relocated all the books he carried to his assistant and took my hand to drop a kiss at the back. "Fancy meeting you here, Rachel. Are you here to see Master Russell? Or Quinn?"

"No, Your Ma—Kurt. I was merely returning a book." I followed when he directed us to continue walking down the hall. "And I met the Head Librarian, too."

"How neat! Master Hiram's a benevolent person, isn't he? He and Master Russell used to tutor my brother and I." (Well, that explained why he called Russell Master.) Then he realized something, his brows furrowing. "Quinn is doing better, I assume? I haven't had time to visit her myself."

"Yes, she is. She is recovering very quickly."

"I'm glad." Kurt smiled, continuing walking. "We grew up together, you see. She, my brother, and I. She's more of a lady now—"

You meant smug and stuck-up, eh prince?

"—but I'm sure my brother will put back the smile upon her face."

Oh about that. "I happened to come across such hearsay—" or, more aptly, gossips from an unfortunate trio, "—that many a girl are after His Majesty the Crown Prince."

"Why, yes." Kurt laughed. "I don't see how girls find him so charming—you must not tell him that if you happen to meet him in person, by the way." He winked in good humor. "But alas! The rumor is true. I don't see an impending wedding any sooner, but it is not to say that there will be no wedding at all."

Well, surely Russell wouldn't be happy with that. In this game of power, why would he let go of a chance to be the king's in-law?

"Anyway, Rachel, may I require your presence this evening? The royal auditorium is hosting a goodwill ambassador singer from Rome. She will be singing an aria from Puccini's _Tosca_."

Ah yes, Puccini. My old employer. I remembered him with fondness. "I'd be glad to be there, Kurt."

His face lighted up, and I couldn't help but thinking of how easy it was to please this human prince. My, my. He would be useful to me, anyway. That's how the human world works. Connection was currency. The more powerful people you knew, the better.

Which, by the way, I didn't see the Fabrays do.

Powerful magic, checked. Powerful position in the palace, checked. (However, I still had questions of why a war hero like Russell was merely a Secretary of Treasure instead of, say, Secretary of the Colonies like Chamberlain or a Commander of the Army like the late Roberts.) Yet they seemed to have made enemies left and right. A hobby, perhaps?

Kurt seemed to notice, saying, "Penny for your thoughts, Rachel?"

I dismissed him with a harmless smile. "I'm just trying to recall memories of the aria of _Tosca_."

He grinned toothily in return. "You should have stayed longer in London, Rachel. Nowadays, there are not too many people who have an appreciation of art." (I noticed that as well, sadly.) "I have to admit, to my utmost grief, that ever since the closing of the public auditorium, there have been not too many opera performance worth seeing either." (Okay. I wasn't aware of that.) From Kurt's yapping, I learned more, more than library books provided. London apparently hasn't been too kind to art for the last few years. Rising tension with the American colonies and recovery for her southern African colonies took its toll on the economy. No time for art whatsoever, but at the same time military dependence took a steady rise. Well. And why wasn't I surprised that Russell was the force behind it? Puck was right. Even Chamberlain was not a rival to Russell's zealous persistence of recovering the kingdom's name—with might.

Well, magic is might, after all.

The aria was okay, I guessed. Not exceptional, but it reminded me of the old days I was employed by Puccini. Good man, he was. Back when I still spared some time to drop by New York, his work was all over the city, performed by a string of the colonies' best singers. Ah London, you were so, so blue compared to her.

(Damn. Now I missed New York.)

Kurt's assistant delivered me back to the Fabray Mansion after the performance. Mid-way, I stopped by a small bookstore to get a book. I picked the book, paid for it (with human bills, yes), and brought it home _with Fabray in my mind_. Hell and all its seven levels, I didn't even know what I was doing. Had I lost my mind? Had all this time being trapped in this filthy world messed up with my head?

I knocked on her door, and like before she was behind her desk when I entered. A silk shawl was draped across her shoulders, and I couldn't help but noticing its lily of the valley patterns. Her arm sling was changed—hey. Stop! I was _not_ employed to pay attention to this kind of details!

"Enjoying the human life, I assume?" she said, not unkindly.

I shrugged. "A demon has a soul, too, and a soul needs more than just bread and magic to live." I approached her. "However, I don't expect you to know more than how to employ us to do your dirty work." It was intended to be an insult, but I lacked the bites to make it one. Ck. I must have gone soft.

If Fabray meant to make an insult in return, she didn't do it. Instead, she eyed the book I laid before her. "Nalniades' _Journey to the Demon World_," she read from the cover. "A good book, I agree, having read it years ago. If only not for Nalniades' spiraling into madness in real life, I'd say his account is very credible." She then raised her eyes to meet mine—for the first time since the incident in the watchtower. "Is this another attempt of yours to find any weakness through things I am fond of?"

"This is... a gift."

If I myself winced at my own wording, imagine Fabray's surprise.

"For someone who has fondness for books, you are boringly uncultured about my kin even though we've been here way before yours do," I said quickly. (Detour couldn't get any faster, no? Yeah.)

A corner of her mouth lifted up, but it could also be a visual trick aided by the dim light in the room. "Such a speech from an old soul."

Was she indulging me? "You are young, human."

"Compared to a demon who has served the House of David, yes."

That brought something to my mind. "How old were you when you first discovered your magic ability?"

"Seven," she said, leaning back against her chair, closing her eyes, looking a bit more relaxed. "I was in Bloemfontein. By now I am sure you are informed about the Boer Wars. My father was stationed there. I summoned my first demon just to see if I could. An imp appeared, and he was unhappy about my flawed pentacle. He lunged at me, and I killed him."

"You killed him," I repeated. Make no mistake: I didn't have sympathy for the weaklings of my kin—and imps bred like bacteria anyway. I pictured a younger Fabray in my mind, seven and less brooding in a pretty dress, summoning a poor imp without even knowing she could—wait. "When did you first draw your flawless pentacle?"

She opened her eyes, yet looking at the ceiling. "Not until I was eleven."

That made sense. Not even a wunderkind could be the alpha kind without training. "And the rest is history," I said.

"And the rest is power," she said, her eyes back into piercing mine. "I am young, but I am not inexperienced. I see what power can do. Tientsin, Bloemfontein, Silistra—they make no difference. Power is power. The strong win, the weak lose."

This human body I inhabited felt sick. A girl of seventeen had seen conflicts from one end of this human world to the other end. Wasn't she only, well, five when Tientsin erupted in a battle between the Old World and its Chinese adversary? Wasn't she only seven when she first killed, imp be damned? Was she an active participant in the Siege of Silistra last year? Summoning demons, triumphing over weaklings, and killing opponents?

So, so young yet so, so laden.

"My arm will be healed by the time Lord Roberts' funeral is conducted," she said. "Two days from now, His Majesty the King himself will give the eulogy. You are to attend it with me. There is no reason one should not pay respects to the dead."

I stared at her in disbelief. _But you're the one who killed him_ was on the tip my tongue, but I couldn't get it out.

"It is late. Go to your room."

I didn't say anything. I just turned around and took my leave.

"Oh, and Berry?"

Tiredly, I stopped before her door. When I turned my head to look, she was opening _Journey to the Demon World_ and flipping the first few pages.

"I do not consider a good book a weakness."

Quinn Fabray, what were you actually planning?

-.-.-.-


End file.
